Baiting
by Darbracken
Summary: Sometimes it was amusing to bait the former Templar and being a mage Jaeden had no qualms about making Alistair as uncomfortable as possible - luckily Zevran seemed to agree. Warnings for yaoi content.
1. Baiting

"Alistair is watching us again; do you think he may be jealous?" The thick Antivan accent stirred Jaeden from his reverie. Zevran enjoyed teasing the former Templar, but recently it had become more and more noticeable that often they were the reason Alistair's brows furrowed. It was understandable; he was a mage and the assassin was no wilting princess whom had to be saved. Somehow the notion of two men sharing such intimacy seemed to unsettle Alistair – or arouse him – Jaeden could never tell which. Long digits skimmed the inner of his thigh, languidly leaning back into the pelts piled up within the tent they officially now shared.

"Maker, do you have to be –so obvious- about it." Finally Alistair's silence was broken, just as Zevran's fingertips cupped his groin, a tiny thrill of excitement spurring on his desire to be mischievous.

"Do the Templars not do such things, Alistair?" The way the man spluttered was almost cute, almost, but he also had a penchant for being irritating and the elf couldn't put his finger on just why. Perhaps it was born out of the fact they were naturally opposed as were cat and dog, considering his preference for magic and Alistair's previous affiliations.

"Certainly not! And if they did, they would not be quite so indiscreet!" Ah, just there. Nails scraped the inner of his thigh a second time, a favourite spot of his, the assassin barely able to suppress his amusement at his lover's sudden interest in baiting the human.

"Did you know Alistair that the Dalish frequently host large orgies? They eat, drink and make merry with one another for hours." At first, colour drained from the human's face before it returned with a flourish, turning him completely crimson at the implication of many naked, writhing bodies. Dryly he swallowed and muttered under his breath. "Maker, remind me to never accept any invitations to Dalish parties."

Cloth was pressed taut to his growing interest in the assassin's touches, seeing no reason to move from where he was, quite comfortable in fact. Alistair on the other hand was growing excruciatingly uncomfortable as robes began to lift to expose muscular legs, not really sure where to look and if anywhere was safe for his eyes to rest. "Zevran is quite… skilled, perhaps if you ask nicely he might show you some tricks that he-" Whatever Jaeden had been about to say was cut off by warm lips and an even hotter tongue that delved quite boldly into his mouth. For moments they just kissed, robes rubbed rhythmically along the swelling shaft. "Learnt in the Antivan whorehouse." Finally Zevran finished the sentence, leaving the mage a little tousled and out of breath.

"You've only known each other for three weeks!" A mixture of repulsion, curiosity and indignation met the hazy cerulean eyes as they settled on the human, thoughts distorting as the Crow brushed fabric swiftly up and down just below the swell of his tip, moving no more than an inch in either direction.

"What is time when it is so obvious our bodies are made to pleasure one another?" Finding himself increasingly unable to join in the banter between his lover and his would-be friend, sometimes rival he instead panted open-mouthed, listening to the rich accent, remembering how sexy it sounded growling close to his ear when the other pushed him down into the furs.

Suddenly cold air washed up lean thighs, robes pulled aside to expose the aching shaft of his erection. A strangled noise informed him that Alistair had seen the burgeoning length. Was it even possible for a human to go even more scarlet than his fellow warden had been when he had last been able to focus on him? Maybe his head would explode. "I'm leaving!" Crashing armour and foliage followed as the Templar clumsily groped around in the darkness beyond the firelight of camp, trying to escape the pair of elves. Huskily Zevran chuckled in his ear, biting into the soft flesh as fingertips splayed. "Perhaps we would be more comfortable continuing this within our tent, no?" Jaeden found that he had to agree, after all the Crow had quite an array of implements hidden in his packs and the mage felt like greeting the morning sun still crying out his praises. Together they slipped into the more secluded confines of the hide construct.

Unnoticed by all Sten sat quietly by the fire, turning a small item over and over in his large hands. He eventually bit into it, savouring the flavour and crumbling sensation in his mouth. "Mmm. Cookies are best."


	2. Control

Apologies for the lack of updates recently, I've been suffering with the depression demons and failed to complete the weekly drabble for a couple of weeks. So instead I ended up writing this because my lovely other half wants to eventually see Alistair and Zevran in bed with Jaeden.

Branches whipped out at him as he clattered through the gloom, groping mindlessly to brush aside his would be assailants. Eventually trees thinned slightly, the heavy armour finally exhausting his headlong flight away from the light of the fire, away from –them-. Heat coloured cheeks, though whether from embarrassment or from exertion was debateable. In his mind fingertips ran up the muscular thigh once more, earning a sigh from the mage. Maker, they certainly knew how to make a scene and how to make him feel excruciatingly uncomfortable.

Something else had become uncomfortable, pain radiating from where his arousal had chaffed along the fabric holding it away from clashing with the metal that encased him. With a hiss and trembling fingers he unbuckled armour slowly, to... make sure everything was in working order still... he reasoned. How long had it been since he relieved himself? Alistair couldn't even remember, since Duncan's death life had passed in a whirlwind of faces, situations and confusion. The grey wardens of Fereldan now consisted of himself and the irritating, infuriating, tormenting mage.

Digits wound about the aching length, flesh against flesh for the first time in months, a dull groan of pleasure emanating as he insured that he had not done himself any damage in the flight from camp. Anxiety roused as amber eyes darted around, as though he expected dark spawn to rear at any second and pounce upon his vulnerable form. Or worse yet that cocky assassin to appear from nowhere and smirk at him, proclaiming that he knew just the remedy that he needed to increase his sexual prowess or something of the kind.

Immuring himself between the alcove formed between two trees, he set his blade across the gap between, eagerly pulling the remaining armour from his heated frame, leaving only breeches and his shirt intact. A curse was muttered but the sound of the mage drowned it out, playing over and over through his memories as Zevran had touched him, pleased him. Even now they would be together, writhing erotically in the tent they shared. For the sake of propriety Alistair objected but his body had entirely different views on their trysts.

A soft lip was bitten as he silenced another hiss that threatened to rouse as he wrapped his hand around himself. Jaeden was handsome, enigmatic and for a man he held a peculiar sway over him, enough to make him follow him unquestioningly even though he was the elder warden. Eyes would be glazed with pleasure by now, Zevran; despite his tales was a proficient lover if the moans that resounded around camp every eve were anything to go by.

The pace was fast, frantic even as he coaxed and teased his manhood with softer and firmer strokes, sweat starting to glisten on the strong cords of abdominal muscle. Throwing his head back bark scrapped through short hair, almost crashing his skull against the tree. Rapidly his throat bobbed with heated pants, trying desperately to relieve himself swiftly. It had been far too long since he had indulged. "Maker, oh Maker." Breathlessly he whispered, twisting against the strong trunks of the trees, writhing as he imagined Jaedan might below the Antivan.

"Jaeden!" As heat spilled through his fingers he called out for the mage, the ignition of his failure in self-restraint. As his hand slowed he shivered, licking his lips as the image of Zevran kissing him popped to the forefront of his thoughts. Brows pressed together in confusion and displeasure. It was one thing to be pleasing himself to the handsome mage, but the assassin never struck him as something he'd please himself to.

Tucking himself away in his pants he sighed, the chill air of the forest finally making itself known to him, a sense of aversion swelling in his breast. How could he, a Templar, feel such release when contemplating things that were at best sinful at worse depraved? Slowly he replaced his armour and decided it was merely a product of exhaustion, loss and the lack of personal alone time that had made him so eager to thrust into his own palm wantonly. That had to be it, he decided, not something he wished to repeat or remember.

Unbeknown to Alistair he was not alone in the trees, for as he turned to trudge reluctantly back to camp Morrigan was – aside from trying to control her revulsion at seeing him pleasure himself – trying to decide how best to use the information gained to her advantage.


End file.
